


Christmas miracles

by NowhereKid



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:54:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21914770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NowhereKid/pseuds/NowhereKid
Summary: It is generally accepted that Christmas is a time of miracles. For one angel and one demon, it is.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	Christmas miracles

It was the twenty-fourth of December, the damn Christmas Eve, which Mr. Brewster could not stand this year. The point was not in the holiday itself, but in the fact that the oven broke in his bakery yesterday. A bakery without an oven on Christmas Eve is not a bakery - it’s nothing but a sheer expense. Regular customers were dropping by Mr. Brewster’s bakery the whole morning, they stared at the “Closed” sign, at Mr. Brewster with a bunch of tools, at empty counters, and left for the nearest supermarket, frustrated.

“No gingerbread cookies,” Mr. Brewster muttered under his nose, poking the oven with a screwdriver, while trying to figure out why it didn’t work properly, “no stollen, no apple rolls and triple proceeds!”

It was already past ten, the bakery was supposed to open long ago , and the stubborn oven didn’t work. All the repairmen, unfortunately, had gone to the suburbs, to their families, and now it seemed completely impossible to find any specialist. Mr. Brewster was close to despair, he was even willing to abandon the tools and not open the bakery at all today. He should go to the supermarket too, and wait until the end of the vacation, so any good master would deal with this stupid stove!

He was distracted from his suffering by a sudden explosion of laughter, which burst outside the window. Mr. Brewster didn't thought they were laughing at him, but he was distracted and turned around. He couldn't distinguish the faces of those people, as they passed too quickly. The only thing he could make out was the red hair of one of the men and a tartan scarf on the light coat of the other.

Their laughter was still heard somewhere nearby, but Mr. Brewster had no time for this. The oven that had suddenly started to work burned his hand. And burned as if it had already worked an hour as well. Blowing on a longitudinal burn in the palm of his hand, Mr. Brewster simultaneously dialed Lucy's number.

“I fixed it! Come on faster, we’ve got some time to bake the cookies!" He shouted into the tube, pinching it with his shoulder and starting to roll out the dough. “I know today isn't your shift, but I promise you a reward!”

***

For an hour now, Chris was hanging out in the frost in the middle of the square with a stupid bouquet of roses. Alison promised to come and meet with him here, and he prepared to meet her , but it seems that she had found things more interesting than her own boyfriend, again. Perhaps one of her friends decided to arrange a Christmas shopping, and Alison could not decline her offer, or maybe her sick mother felt "bad" today. Chris had seen this woman twice, and she gave him the impression of a person who outlives them all and certainly did not suffer from a chronic cold.

He wrapped his coat tightly and glanced down at the smartphone. Half past ten. Wonderful. Another ten minutes, and he will throw the damn roses into the nearest garbage bin and go home to watch the Christmas episode of Doctor Who, wrapping himself in a blanket and eating bundles of chips. Chips and tangerines, 'cause it's Christmas, after all. And it wouldn't matter if he's alone. Feels better in the warmth and without Alison eternally bearing all kinds of nonsense beside. It's a shame, of course, that the roses completely froze on the street, he'd given as much as five pounds for them, but he did not need wilted roses anyway. And you can’t give them to your mom like ... Yes, it’s better not to. Otherwise she will also begin to growl about the fact that all the presents she gets from him are rubbish.

Another gust of wind made Chris decide that, since he no longer believes in Alison's arrival, he can wait the remaining couple of minutes in a warmer place, with a cup of coffee, for example.

"Come on, angel! Is he? Okay, as you say…"

Chris turned to find out who was so lucky to be a real angel for someone. He should have stopped before turning around, rather than continuing to walk blindly. As soon as he took two steps, his leg slipped sharply, and the view of the square immediately gave way to the view of the gray sky, from which snowflakes were about to begin to fall according to the forecast. The back of the head and back ached badly from a fall. Chris was about to swear out loud to indicate what his Christmas Eve was going to be like, but then a long striped scarf and a girl's face appeared above him.

"Are you okay?"

Chris blinked absently, looking at this fancy grubby figure in such a familiar cloak, worn over a pair of knitted sweaters. What was missing in that look was a Sonic Screwdriver. And Chris absolutely did not care he was seeing this stunning girl for the first time, he already knew for sure that he wanted to watch the Doctor Who’s Christmas series with her this year.

“All right, now. May I offer you some coffee?"

"Right like that? Lying on the ground?" She looked at him through the glasses and giggled softly. “You can, of course, but won't it be cold to you?”

“Your presence warms me. Here, take it." - He thoughtlessly handed her a bouquet and only then remembered his terrible condition. But in some miraculous way the roses, which he would never have carried to his mother, now looked as if they had just been cut from the bush.

***

Mrs. Urcher-Meredith-Smith could be considered the most successful widow at her age in London. She had her own house, a servant, sufficient capital so she could afford everything she wanted right until the end of her life, and, of course, a decent number of grandchildren. Consulting her neighbors' and servants' opinions, Mrs. Urcher-Meredith-Smith was also sane enough for her eighty-two years old, which not all of her peers could boast of. Compared to peers, she was also, and surprisingly, alive. Having safely outlived three husbands, she believed that she certainly had nothing to complain about. Usually she thought so. But, spending the Christmas Eve all alone, in a holiday-dressed house and her wheelchair, Mrs. Urcher-Meredith-Smith, to her great shame, was ready to complain about her fate to any living soul that appeared in her field of vision.

Her numerous grandchildren, namely already fourteen adult men and women, promised to come to her for Christmas, but in the last week each of them had a reason not to come: Frank's daughter broke her ankle and he and his wife stayed to look after her, Michelle was invited to a prestigious party in New York, Teddy and Lizzie were stuck somewhere on the opposite side of the planet with their sport stuff, Anabel recently got married and her husband insisted on spending Christmas with his parents, and so on and so forth. . The nurse promised to come later in the evening, to help with household chores, but this is not the holiday surrounded by the family at all. But in Mrs. Urcher-Meredith-Smith’s house there would have been enough space for everyone ...

“Well, that was too much, Crowley.” - an indignant voice was heard from the window. "How did you?.."

"Simply."

Mrs. Urcher-Meredith-Smith could continue to listen to the conversations of passers-by outside the window with a shadow of interest, but she was distracted from this by the ringing of her mobile phone.

\- Granny, we managed to get plane tickets! - Teddy's voice was heard from the phone. - We are already in London, shall we bring the wine in half an hour?

Michelle called next, followed by Anabelle, who laughed because she was getting divorced, but she was going to celebrate Christmas with “understanding people” for a start. The phone has not subsided since half an hour. Only Frank did not call, but he ended up arriving first, with his wife and daughter on crutches, proudly informing her great-grandmother that she'd got a “military injury”. 

Meeting the guests, Mrs. Urcher-Meredith-Smith forgot about strange young people outside her windows.

***

"You've certainly overdone it." Aziraphale was indignant, looking back at the huge mansion, strangely fitting into the industrial landscape of London. “You just could not make them all believe that their plans were canceled and they were lucky to see her on the Christmas day! Fourteen mortals, not counting their families! You shouldn't have interfered so much!"

“I was not stopped by any “right” angel,” Crowley said maliciously, grinning from ear to ear. “So I intervened. Incidentally, without any far-fetched "equilibrium." I'm sure that it was not necessary to burn the baker and make the boy fall."

"Of course it was!"

“And this is what the angel tells me, the purest and most loving creature created by Her!” Crowley grinned and laughed lightly, watching his friend react to this statement.

"Angels are not loving."

"Ow, you are! You abound with your love everywhere, especially in your bookshop."

They turned onto Oxford Street, and Crowley continued to grimace. Of course, Aziraphale knew that a walk with a demon would not be completely rosy, but it had already gone beyond the bounds. A click of a finger - and on the red head of the demon there was a red knitted hat with a fluffy pompom.

"Since you have already decided to behave like a child, then put on a children's hat!" said the angel with a smug look. Ludicrous

“So it is?” Crowley squinted inappropriately, and the next moment a snowball hit the light cloak of Aziraphale, it flew into his back. The children, who had previously played carelessly with snow, froze instantly in their places, their eyes widened with horror.

“Aren't you ashamed of yourself?” Aziraphale asked with a sigh, turning back to the demon. But he was no longer there, he ran to the other side of the street and was clearly preparing to throw another snowball at the angel. “Are you serious, Crowley?!”

Christmas is not only a celebration of family and the joys of a new life. It is also a holiday for all angels and demons, because there is no limit for miracles on Christmas Eve.

On this Christmas Eve, none of the boys playing on the street caught a cold, and none of the equipment in Soho has broken (except the routers). On this Christmas Eve, Mr. Brewster’s profit exceeded the usual Christmas' profit twice. Chris had a great time with his future wife. And Mrs. Urcher-Meredith-Smith was the most successful and happy woman of her age in London.

On this Christmas Eve, one angel and one demon walked around the streets and miracled for their own pleasure and for their own discretion, having fun before Christmas as only etheric and occult creatures can do.


End file.
